Love Song
by Mikomi's Pen
Summary: One year in Ishvar, searching for salvation under the desert sun. [Incomplete]
1. Desert

**Spoilers: **Ishvar backstory. Roy and Riza backstory. Um, identities of the Sins, but only if you already know who they are. Yeah. I know.  
**Warnings: **Sex. Hee hee. References to sex. Violence. References to violence. Kimbley. He's a warning unto himself.  
**Notes: **Many sentences taken from or inspired by T.S. Eliot's masterful "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." Epigram taken from Dante's "Inferno," via "Prufrock." A great deal of what I'll include in this fic was referenced in "Ad Maiorem Dei Gloriam," as there was a positive response to that fic and I've always heard that dipping from the same well twice was good. Wait, bad? Shit. Okay. This entire fanfic was inspired by midnight combined with the dub of episode 15 and the realization that Kimbley was just hanging around Gran's tent, and the half-sensical plotbunny of Kimbley being Gran's protege and the subsequent plotbunny of Roy being Marcoh's. Uh, I should probably stop with the notes now.

* * *

**"Love-Song"**  
Prologue: Desert

A man could go dry out here. He could wither up. He might shrivel until he looked like a dried leaf, until the wind-carried sand pulverized him into dust, picked up the pieces of him and carried them along. He, as they, would lay out there forever, baked into the fallow earth of this kingdom of heat and sun.

That sun cooked him even now. That was a good word – cooked. It cooked him, now, and would devour him later. The wind would devour him. The desert would devour him. He'd pop like a sweet potato in the coals, boiling inside, burst with the steam that couldn't find a way out. He'd die watching the steam of him vanish into the wavering air as the expanding water sought escape. He'd vainly grasp for that water as he died.

No, he told himself; that wasn't it at all. That wasn't how he'd go at all.

The way he would go would be dehydration. That was what would get him. It wasn't nearly hot enough to cook him. He would stay alive if he could only get water –

She'd been like water. To him. She'd always had that velvety feel that still water always seemed to have, that velvety-soft sensation of purity. Even when warm, she'd felt cool – that curious quality, how even tepid water could cool the mouth. Water like a baptism, bringing salvation – water like rain, bringing respite.

But now he didn't have her. She wasn't there when he needed her. He would die.

He had had a choice. He had had a choice to leave, even though it wasn't much of a choice at all. Because he would have burned back there, too. He would have watched his skin go red to brown to black back there, too. It hadn't seemed a choice then, when he'd made the choice, but now...Back there, water. Back there, salvation.

He'd had a choice, he told himself. That should have been enough.

At that moment, he might have wished for a fate, a god, to take the cruelty of choice away.

The sun hung hot, glaring like god's eye. Deus, absconditus, enjoying the little peep-show of mortality. So he glared right back, careless of the heat that vengefully settled on his eyes, scorching them as the wrathful sun punished him for his pride.

"A man could go dry out here," he said. It was meant to be a defiant shout. The sun and wind and sand reduced it to a whisper.

Time thudded into minutes. Minutes were eternity. Time for a thousand decisions in a single minute out here in the honey-dry landscape.

_Sio credesse che mia risposta fosse_  
_A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,_  
_Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse._  
_Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo_  
_Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,_  
_Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo._


	2. January 17

**Notes: **You'll notice that Roy is a Captain, when logic dictates that he would be a Major, as all State Alchemists are Majors. I'm aware of this fact. I'm trying something. Bear with me. I've decided to go largely according to English dub. The only point of difference is on "Ishvar," because - well, "Ishvar" has significance, _dammit. _And, uh, I'm sticking with Kimbley. Thanks go out to Mandy138 and ponderosa121 on the Royai livejournal community for help with some of the details.

* * *

**January 17, 1907**

Roy awoke shivering from a dream. For a moment, he hovered in uncertainty – his dream had been cold, and to come now into a cold reality seemed impossible. But slowly he came to himself and found himself curled in the corner formed by his seat and the wall, huddled to conserve warmth.

Slowly he raised his head, wincing at the stiffness of his neck. Outside the window, left open from the previous day, the vast expanse of sand dotted infrequently with scrub shone a dull copper-gray, and the sky was black shading into purple. He couldn't hear a sound over the clatter of rails beneath him, but the air held that peculiar shadowless twilight stillness – things looked silent. As to which twilight it was – well. His hand drifted down toward his pocket, and he wished, not for the first time, that he had a watch.

Instead, he shifted to the opposite bench and peered out toward the front cars. They were headed as they had been for days inexorably east: if the light lay behind them, it was evening; if it lay before them, it was dawn. That consideration would have been helpful, of course, if he could actually tell whether it was lighter ahead or behind, but the sky was a uniform purple, so the entire line of thought was useless.

He considered the window. It opened only slightly wider than the breadth of his head, but it slid down, rather than up, to open, so there was no danger there. And there was a broad sill, of sorts, upon which he could place his arm to support himself. And Roy was a curious sort, thoughtful, and it would be advantageous to train into himself the habit of learning all he could about his situation.

The first gust of wind against his face brought tears to his eyes; the second dried them. He blinked furiously against the chill just to be able to peer at the landscape ahead and saw nothing. But just as he worked up the nerve to lean out further the train veered slightly off, and he was rewarded for his perseverance with the image (or mirage?) of a red sun stretching just the very tip of its head above the horizon.

And, perhaps it was merely an illusion, but even through the wind he seemed to feel the first traces of heat upon the air. Slight thing, really, but it hinted fearsome at the power of the day to come.

So. Dawn, then. Roy pulled his head back inside with a bit of difficulty, but managed to avoid the loss of any skin. He settled back, wondered what to do with this newfound bit of knowledge, and jumped when he realized the gas-lamp had been lit, and that there was someone sitting across from him.

"I'm sorry," the oldish man said quickly, before Roy could shout or say anything at all. "I knocked."

A deep, steadying breath, and then Roy responded, "I didn't hear you."

The man smiled, and it made his wrinkled face kindly and paternal. Upon second glance, he leaned more toward middle-aged than old – it was simply that he had reached that middle age without any sort of grace; and he dressed like Roy's own grandfather to boot, all tweed and frump. "I figured that out," the rough-voiced man said with just a trace of gentle mockery. "I'd imagine it's a bit noisy out there, considering the wind."

"I was trying to figure out what time it was," Roy replied, more defensive than he had intended.

"And the best way to do that is to stick your entire head out of a moving train." Now the man out-and-out laughed. "And people say we're eccentric."

"We?" Roy asked. The man didn't look much like a soldier, so that couldn't be what he meant. So –

"We alchemists," the man said, raising both eyebrows slightly.

"Ah," Roy said. "Of course." And although he wanted to point the conversation in a direction that would result in the man introducing himself, he couldn't help but be a touch curious: "People call us eccentric?"

The man paused a moment, tilted his face away from Roy and looked at him from the corner of his eye. "Depends on the people," he said. "There are some that call us eccentric, sure. And, uh – " The man laughed again, but it was a different laugh, and he lifted his chin pointedly toward the front of the train. "And there are some that call us devils. It's just a matter of cultural perspective."

Roy knew all that. He didn't want to know it, but he'd heard stories, and he'd have to be a damn sight more naïve than he was not to know why the army was in Ishvar. So, long-suffering, he said, "Be nice to have someone appreciate us."

"Sure. It'd be nice to have all the hazelnuts you could care to eat, too, and springtime all year, but some things are beyond our control."

"That's true," Roy said, and then hesitated. Probably best not to mention that he was allergic both to hazelnuts and pollen. "I, uh..." He cleared his throat, then held out his hand. "I'm, uh, Captain Roy Mustang."

The man looked down at the outstretched hand, then back at Roy, and he looked genuinely confused. Then he shook himself and grasped his hand. "Oh, God – I'm so sorry," he said. "I thought for sure that I had...I'm Tim Marcoh," he said apologetically, and released his hand.

It took, thankfully, barely a moment for the name to sink in. Then Roy was on his feet, throwing a salute to the Lieutenant Colonel, who was staring up at him, as baffled as he'd been before. "Sir!" Roy greeted even as Marcoh was saying, "No, really, please – "

"Sit down," the Lieutenant Colonel said, then, again, added a "Please." "I'm not used to this," he explained as Roy sat. "I've never actually been in command of anyone before, and I've...I've never been called Major, or – uh, or Lieutenant Colonel in my life. Please."

Roy rubbed nervously at his wrist. "I'm, uh – studying under you, aren't I?" he asked.

"You are. I've heard you're a terribly talented student," Marcoh said kindly.

Thank you, sir, but a compliment wasn't precisely what he'd been going for. "I'm, uh – I'm not certain what to call you, then."

"Oh – Tim will do fine."

No, it wouldn't. Roy cleared his throat and said, "I'm sorry, sir, but I don't really feel comfortable..."

Marcoh stared at him. "Why?"

"Because – " Roy was resenting the hell out of this man for making him explain himself. "Because you're a Lieutenant Colonel, sir."

Marcoh's mouth formed a silent "Oh." "Doctor, then," Marcoh said. "I was – that's what they called me, in the research lab." He took a moment to smile and shrug. "I've always kind of seen myself as more of a scientist than a soldier." Then Marcoh cleared his throat awkwardly: "Anyway. I just came in here to introduce myself, and to tell you that we're getting close to the outskirts of Ishvar."

The words sounded strangely ominous, but Roy wasn't one for false omens, for belief in prescience. He wasn't going to let the ring of them ruin his mood. "We're arriving soon?" he asked.

"Noonish tomorrow, they say." Marcoh considered him with an old man's jaded eye. "You sound eager. Ready to fight for God and country?"

The Doctor seemed kindly enough and his last question ironic enough that Roy felt easy enough to confess. "Not to fight," he said, "not really. I have to confess, I – can't picture myself making much of a show of myself on the battlefield. But I'm eager to stop the war."

A small sigh, and Marcoh leaned back slightly in his seat. "And how will you do that?"

"However the Fuhrer wishes me to," Roy responded, honestly. He was no boy, and he wasn't naïve; he knew that he was going to be a tool of Amestris. It was simple wisdom not to fight against that, because the more he could do, the sooner the war would end.

Still, the Doctor sighed through his nose and looked out the window. Roy followed his gaze. The sun had risen as they spoke, and the land was washed with deep but yet weak red. Rocks and the rare scrub brush cast long shadows. The sky was still stained deep with color. "This is beautiful country," Marcoh said.

"I fell asleep last night staring out the window," Roy admitted. "I couldn't look away long enough to pull out my bed."

"The same thing happened to me, when I came out here for the first time," the Doctor said. Roy doubted that, but the Doctor was trying to establish solidarity; okay. "I was a lot like you, I'd imagine. Have you met the Fuhrer in person?"

"Once. It was me and maybe five of my classmates. 'Congratulations on your exemplary performance.' That sort of thing. No big deal." Roy shrugged, deliberately casual.

"But now you're willing to die for him."

Roy looked at Marcoh, at his gray weathered face, at the shadows deepened by the early-morning light, uncertain whether or not to take offense at that comment, uncertain what it even meant. It was the Doctor's eyes that decided him, sorrowful as they flickered back and forth against the horizon, against the rising light. "I'm willing to die for Amestris."

"I can't blame you. Fuhrer Bradley is quite charismatic." It was as though Marcoh hadn't even heard Roy's response. Roy forgave him, and tried to lighten the tension that was making both he and the Doctor uncomfortable.

"Besides, I don't particularly plan on dying," Roy said cheerily.

Doctor Marcoh, however, was dead-set against any sort of detente. "No? And how will you avoid it?"

"Well, I'll stay away from fatty foods, cigarettes, and – "

"Bullets?"

"I'll stay far away from bullets," he assured the Doctor.

"Why do you think they even sent you here, Captain?" Marcoh asked.

That was a terrible question to have been asked. A question like that never spelled good. "To learn from you, until I become a full alchemist in my own right," he replied, uncertain in spite of himself. Marcoh didn't respond, so he amended himself: "To assist you."

"And why do you think they sent me here?"

Uh. "To do research."

"I could do research in Central."

"You could," Roy agreed cautiously. "But there must be advantages – "

"They've sent me here to kill, Captain," Marcoh said, "as they've sent you here to kill."

Oh, that was a _bad _thing to hear. "Then they're pretty dumb," Roy responded. "From what I've heard, you don't practice practical alchemy, and I'm – I work with the air. What am I supposed to do, blow wind at the Ishvarites?"

"They have plans for you." Marcoh narrowed his eyes slightly. "They have plans for _us_."

Again, Roy attempted some bit of joke, though with considerably less humor than before: "I had no idea I was that important. I mean, you're famous, but..."

"Not you and me," Marcoh said. "Us. _All_ of us. You, your classmates, the men I work with – all of us. Do you know how many State Alchemists have been shipped into Ishvar?"

Though the admission was shameful, Roy said, "I don't."

"This has never happened before, Captain. We've never been at war before." Marcoh continued to watch Roy – it seemed as though the man were judging him, measuring his reactions. But the Doctor broke off his gaze and stood, weary, _old. _"You should close the window before it gets too hot."

"Does it get very hot here?" Roy asked, even though that was a really, really stupid question.

"You're from Central, aren't you?" When Roy nodded, Marcoh smiled a tiny, infuriating, knowing smile. "Yes. It gets very hot here."

Roy was irritated enough by that last condescension that he stood and snapped a salute. "Thank you for your time, sir." He felt a little sorry when the Doctor looked awfully pained.

"When we get to the city, find my office," Marcoh said. "There's a special barracks for the alchemists. I have my office there. From there, I'll show you where to go." He stood there a moment, uncertain. "Goodbye," he said, and nodded, and left.

Roy waited until he was certain that Marcoh was gone before he closed the window. The Doctor had seemed to know what he was talking about.


	3. January 18

**January 18, 1907**

Roy shaded his eyes against the impossible, unforgiving glare of the sun. He coughed when, trying to take a deep, steadying breath, he inhaled a mouthful of dust. Already, when he closed his jaw, he bit down on grit. Already a headache was starting to beat behind and above his eyes, a reaction to the heat and light and din.

Already, he was starting to detest this land.

Ishvar City had long been the commercial and political capital of the land with which it shared a name. It had grown vast as the myriad tribes met to trade, to negotiate, to resolve or initiate wars. It was where those from Amestris, from Xing, Drachma, Aerugo, from every land – where they met to trade spices or silk, gold or gunpowder, weapons or art. It was a bustling city, prosperous, soaked in the swirling, mingling, heady waters of East and West and North and South and every notch on the compass rose between.

They said it had been a beautiful city, once. The architecture had been famed: Amestrian technology and Xingan wealth had allowed Drachman grandeur and Ishvaran aesthetics to mate in a glorious celebration of the beauty of sky, earth, and life. Tiled, curving archways had led the wanderer into hidden gardens of green, crimson, and running water. Cool drinks and rich foods had been available in the most fascinating places, and always there was music, or dancing, or theater, or even some fascinating conversation attempting to reconcile the different ideologies of different lands.

The revolt hadn't started here, but it had spread here. Among the last to rebel and certainly the the first invaded, Ishvar city had been adopted as the headquarters of the Amestrian military, though not before those famed walls had been torn down, those gardens trampled, those voices silenced in the brutal and bloody fighting that had torn through the land like brushfire.

Even now it was every bit as populous as before, and it was every bit as busy as before; it was just the people and the business that were different. The city didn't glimmer with every color known to man, as Roy pictured it having done once in his mind's eye. Now it was just dusty brown with wide swathes of dark blue. And instead of the constant murmur of conversation, there were shouts, far-off reports of riflers training, the shriek and clatter of trains. Instead of glittering tiled gateways, there were just the foundations of buildings torn down to make way for railways, rail stations, warehouses.

Where once had been the Jewel of the East, now there was a military camp. Sad.

Roy stooped to pick up his bag. The barracks was straight up the main road a ways, on the right side, he'd been told. Once he found Marcoh, perhaps he could manage a bath.

_4:27 P.M._

The Doctor looked profoundly uncomfortable in his uniform, tugging absentmindedly at the lapels and adjusting the pins as he walked. It was actually quite well-fitted (a perk, Roy supposed, of actually ranking above piss and pond scum), but the Doctor couldn't stop fiddling with it every few steps.

"There's a common mess hall for everyone," he was saying as he walked. He paused a moment to flip his cuff up, then back down again. "That'll be the one time you'll have an opportunity to mingle with non-alchemists so long as you're in Ishvar City." He gave a final sharp jerk to his cuff, then passed the folder of papers over to his right hand to free his left. "Don't look for me there."

What, the good Doctor, not a people person? That was shocking. "And outside Ishvar City?"

"Outside Ishvar City, you're going to be on free time, or you're gonna be fighting. And it's none of our business who you're talking to on leave – " He actually stopped walking a moment to extricate his shirt sleeve from beneath his uniform sleeve, and Roy almost bumped into him. At the last minute, Marcoh began walking again. "And in the Trap, you're not going to have nice quarters like you do here." He hesitated a moment, slowed his pace so that Roy drew level with him rather than trailing him. "I'm sorry. I'm operating under the assumption that you know the vernacular here. Do you – ?"

"Ishvarana, Akarana, Kempyr, and Harish," Roy responded. "The Trap. The four cities that outline the area where the true rebellion is taking place. Named because they form a rough trapezoid." He allowed a beat. "I didn't come into this completely ignorant, regardless of what you might think." Then Roy took a moment to reflect on how perfectly that had come out. Scathing without any disrespect, intelligent without any snot, not a single inflection off. Nothing was more satisfying than a well-nuanced retort.

But evidently Marcoh didn't see fit to be impressed with his intelligence. "Did I offend you yesterday?"

"Some of your implications were a touch broad," Roy said.

Marcoh nodded shortly. "I'm sorry," he said, and continued on. "The City is well-appointed, though. Running water just about everywhere – you won't go thirsty so long as you're in the city."

"Baths...?" Evidently, all his hope had come through in his voice; Marcoh shot him an amused glance.

"Baths, running cold and hot both," Marcoh replied. "In the other cities, you won't be so lucky. Ishvarana generally is pretty well-supplied, though since the infrastructure is down you'd have to draw your own water from the Messha. Anywhere east of the Hub is going to have water in late spring, after the snow melts, and mid-fall, when the rains – you don't need to know this." Marcoh cleared his throat. "You'll be receiving regular pay, so on time off you'll be able to invest in this fine city and this fine land by shopping and dining. Most of the things you'll find in the stores are worthless," Marcoh confided, "but the food can be good."

"Yeah?"

"If you like spice. You'll have Sundays off. Monday through Saturday, you'll assist me in my lab from eight in the morning until five in the evening." He paused a moment, and his lips quirked up – perhaps at the vaguely pulp-horror overtones of the phrase "assist me in my lab." "Then you'll have free time."

"That seems generous," Roy said carefully.

"I expect your schedule will be like this only temporarily," Marcoh responded. "And it wouldn't be frowned upon if you stayed longer than you're required to." He nodded toward a large doorway. "That's the cafeteria." Then he went through a smaller set of doors, into a narrow hallway lined on either side with numbered doors.

"Is there anyone else working for you?"

"No," Marcoh said. "You're the only researcher, at the moment, at least." Again Marcoh stopped and turned to face Roy, who this time managed to keep from making a fool of himself. "Do you know of Colonel Basque Gran?"

"Yeah."

"He's in a similar set-up. He has an apprentice, too, who I – I had the option of taking him on. I refused, and got you, while the Colonel took this boy." Marcoh leaned in and murmured, "Do not, do _not _tell anyone I warned you, but – at all costs, Captain, avoid the Colonel, and _avoid that boy."_ Then the Doctor pulled away again, and walked forward a few steps. "Here. 214." He handed Roy a key and stepped back. "Be nice to your roommate. The roommate's always your key to avoiding awkwardness for the first while."

"I'll see you at eight tomorrow, Doctor?" Roy asked.

The Doctor nodded. "Don't stay up all night," he chided, then hiked his file folder up under his arm and continued down the hall.

The room was small; the bunk bed filled most of it, and almost all the rest of the room was taken up by two miniscule desks and a pair of dressers. It was empty when Roy walked in, but obviously lived-in; the top bed was unmade, a few stray socks and shirts clung to nooks, and the room smelled of life. Roy dropped his suitcase on the lower bunk and examined the room more closely.

One of the dressers stood partially open, and judging by the state of it when Roy peeked in, dirty clothes heaped up on any flat surface, it wasn't his. The hangars were dominated by the military uniform; there was only one set of casual clothes hanging up, almost lost in the pressing sea of blue. Roy quickly backed away and turned toward the other dresser.

He had his own extensive set of uniforms – just as many, he guessed, as were in his roommate's dresser. Below that were a set of drawers – holding socks, underwear, the high-necked black shirts that were standard beneath the uniform jacket, and, to his slight alarm, a belt with an attached holster. Below that was an open shelf with a few sets of boots.

The less-messy of the desks had pens, paper, envelopes, and was topped off by a bookshelf that held a few very dry-looking textbooks. A lower drawer, to his relief, held a towel and basic toiletries. He went back to the textbooks, and puzzled a moment over a few of the titles – some he could understand, treatises on air alchemy, several of which he had actually brought with him, to his regret, but – physics? Heavy physics, he noted as he flipped through the book in question, calculus-based.

_A plan for us, indeed. Certainly beyond my comprehension._

"Well, well," came a high mocking voice. "Aren't _you _dapper."

Roy looked over his shoulder to see a lean man, hungry, wolfish, standing there, a smile on his broad lips. "Excuse me?" he asked, putting down the textbook and turning to face him.

"Dapper," the hungry man repeated. He paused pointedly, then tilted his head to the side and ran his hand down the side of his face in a pointedly sensual gesture. "_Fancy,_" he explained. "I'd have to imagine you're quite popular with the ladies." He paused again. "Or men?"

Roy collected himself enough to speak. "That's – "

"None of my business?" the hungry man asked.

"A fine way to greet someone," Roy finished.

"Pardon me," the hungry man said. He bowed, and Roy took the opportunity to look him over. From the towel over his arm, the key in his hand, and his uniform pants, Roy got the sinking feeling that the man was none other than the occupant of the room. "My name is Zolf Jork Kimbley, born on June 21st and christened on the 24th, or so they say." He straightened, jasper eyes deeply amused. "They also say that no good comes of a solstice baby. You're supposed to hang 'em with iron and circle 'em with salt, and even then the imps'll switch 'em out half the time with a changeling. The imps are stronger on the solstice," he said with all mock-seriousness. "Of course, given how awful I was even when just a fetus, I recon my parents wanted to try their chances with a changeling."

"Right," Roy muttered. There was something deeply terrifying in the way this man feigned madness. "Zolf, then?"

"Kimbley," the hungry man corrected. "Use my first or middle name, and I'll cut your nuts off." For some reason, Kimbley found this quite deeply amusing.

"Right," Roy said again once the hungry man had stopped laughing. "Kimbley." He cleared his throat, wiped his hand on his pants, and extended it to greet his roommate. "I'm Captain Roy Mustang." When Kimbley didn't take his hand, but turned away to climb up onto the top bunk of the bed, Roy cleared his throat and slipped the scorned hand into his pocket.

"So, Captain Roy Mustang," Kimbley said, pulling his long wet hair over his shoulder to towel it off. "What are you doing in my room?"

"I'm – " He gestured to his suitcase. "I'm going to – room with you."

"Ah hah," Kimbley said. "And why's that?"

Was this some sort of game? "Because I need somewhere to sleep?"

"Touché," Kimbley said. Roy stared at him a moment, shrugged, and went to his suitcase. Wouldn't be a bad idea to be unpacked before dinner, and he wasn't going to delude himself into thinking that he might be able to switch rooms. – Still, couldn't hurt to leave some of the heavier items in the bag, just on the off-chance.

"Didn't they tell you that they were going to provide clothing?" Kimbley asked suddenly. The fact that he was watching Roy unpack was deeply unsettling, even though it shouldn't have been.

"These are casual clothes," Roy responded.

"You only get one day off a week."

"I know."

"Awful lot of clothes."

Roy turned to Kimbley irritably. "I don't like to smell."

Kimbley smiled innocently over the open book on the bed before him, his now-bound hair falling forward over his shoulder. "I see," he said, his tone mocking and condescending.

Roy paused, tapped a knuckle against the wood of the dresser, turned to Kimbley. "What."

"What do you mean, 'What,' Captain Roy Mustang?" He brushed a thumb along his lower lip. "I'm afraid I can't follow the complex and unpredictable thoughts running through your esoteric mind."

"Have I been impolite? Did I say something nasty? Did I _drown _your _cat?_" Roy paused to draw breath as Kimbley smiled at the heat in his voice. "Because you've been – "

"You should see me on a bad day," Kimbley said. "Or with someone I haven't taken an immediate shine to. Where were you born, Roy-Roy?" Kimbley continued before Roy could react.

"Central," Roy responded, caught off-guard.

"Lived there all your life?" Roy nodded. "Rich?"

"Middle-class, I guess," Roy responded cautiously.

"Your father a clerk, your mother a housewife. And your name – Mustang? Somewhere along the line, your ancestors raised horses. Urban-middle-class from farmer stock."

"What are you going on about?"

"I'm just speculating on the origins of my new best friend," Kimbley said mockingly. Then: "Dinner!" he announced jubilantly and hopped off the bed, acting for all the world like an exuberant child.

"What?"

"Mess hall just opened," Kimbley said, pulling a blue uniform jacket over his white sleeveless shirt and leaving it hanging open. "I'm gonna go get me some _meat."_

"I, uh – " Roy cleared his throat. "Enjoy your...meat."

Kimbley grinned broadly, wickedly at that. "Plan to," he said, dropped his key into his pocket, and walked off.

The last of Roy's shirts and pants went into the drawers, the last of the books onto his bookshelf; then he picked up his key and locked the door behind him. A bit of exploration would not, perhaps, be amiss.

It didn't take long before Roy regretted not having changed into a uniform before going out. He got numerous stares and was actually stopped once, by a shortish man with the stripes of a Major, who, by all odds, had better things to do than stop those who might _possibly _be unauthorized. Roy explained who he was, and the Major accepted his explanation, but admonished him to wear his uniform at all times.

"This is a _soldier's base, _Captain Mustang," the Major growled as he walked off.

Roy almost turned around, then, to postpone his mission for another day, when he was better prepared, but a burst of cool breeze coming through a door as someone walked outside was too much of a temptation.

So he followed whoever it was through the door, into a dusty courtyard open to the sky, hung at the opposite end with much-abused, hole-riddled paper targets. Not the simple bulls-eye, he noted, but human-shaped. Charming. The sky had turned reddish – it seemed early for that, but he wasn't going to question it. With the twilight, as always, had come chill winds, a welcome relief from the stifling heat inside the building.

There was a dull scratch behind Roy, and he turned around to see the tall man whom he had followed leaning against the wall, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lip, striking at his lighter, looking rather guiltily up.

"Not gonna tell anyone about this, right?" the blond man said.

"Are we not supposed to be outside?" Roy asked.

The tall man shrugged. "Nah, being outside is okay. About my postprandial cigarette." The man struck a flame and lit the cigarette. "No real rule against it, but it's frowned upon. Smells, bad for you, all that. So."

Roy wasn't particularly fond of the habit, but he did have a certain measure of respect for anyone who would use the word "postprandial," even ironically, so he shook his head. "It's your own health."

"And I went outside." The man smiled, took a long drag. He looked to be perhaps two, maybe three years older than Roy. "Want one?"

Roy leaned against the wall next to the tall man. "No. Thanks," he said. "I just came out to enjoy the sunset." He looked up at the sky, now a deep scarlet. "It seems early to be getting dark."

"Bear in mind that it's the middle of winter," the tall man reminded him. "Doesn't feel like it, but it is. So, hey! You can look forward to it getting hotter." He took a moment to take a puff off his cigarette. "When'd you get in?"

Well, Roy wasn't exactly making a secret of being new, so he supposed it was a relatively obvious question. "Around two today," he said.

"Ohh," the tall man said, leaning forward, clearly interested. "You're an alchemist?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, you don't look like a technician, and it was alchemists and technicians on the train today...Word is you're gonna end the war," the tall man said cheerily.

"Me?" Roy asked, confused.

"Sure," he said. "You, and all the rest of 'em. Haven't seen very many of your sort, even though the mess hall is in your building. You guys are only just starting to get here, I hear."

"No, I, uh – I'm a scientist. I'm just here to do research. I didn't come to – " He searched for words. "To end the war." For some reason, he felt compelled to add, "Sorry."

"That the case? Huh."

"You sound skeptical."

"Just seems weird that they'd send you out here in the seventh year of a war that's turned pretty fucking bloody to do research, is all." He paused. "Mind if I say fuck?" Roy shook his head. "I ask with everybody," the tall man said. "I'm not treating you differently because you're an alchemist."

"I wouldn't want you to."

"I tried my hand at alchemy when I was little," he said. "I was decent at it. I turned out better at shooting people. My loss. So I don't think you're different from people like me."

"And I was so hoping for some bowing and scraping," Roy joked.

"Well, you're a major. I expect you'll get your share."

Roy shook his head. "Not yet. I'm not a State Alchemist yet."

The tall man looked at him. "Don't tell me this is your testing ground."

"It's just custom that a would-be State Alchemist studies under someone who's passed the test. I'm just here to study under Doctor Marcoh."

"Marcoh? Really?" He didn't wait for an answer. "You are in the military, though. They wouldn't let you use the barracks otherwise." It was half a question.

"Yeah. I'm Captain Roy Mustang." Telling the tall man seemed a lot more natural than telling Kimbley, or even Marcoh.

He saluted lazily, ironically, in response. "I'm Corporal Jan Havoc, _sir_," he said, then laughed quietly and shook his head. "Sorry. Don't court-martial me or anything. I'm just never gonna be able to respect someone younger than I am. _Especially _not someone who came in on the train at two o'clock this afternoon. Worst part about working with you alchemists – you're always so damn _young._"

"Yet wise beyond our years," Roy said. "How long have you been out here?"

"I'd say about five minutes," Havoc said, then continued, "or three years, three months, with perhaps a total of eight months' leave – depends on what you mean by 'here.' And yes, Captain, you do get used to the heat, somewhat. Always seems so much colder when you go home."

"Three years," Roy repeated. "Can't even imagine it."

"Well, I've had a relatively easy run," Havoc said casually. "I've stayed mainly in the City. Went into Ishvarana once," he continued, "got shot. They almost amputated my left arm 'cause of that, but your Doctor Marcoh fixed me pretty damn well. Never got back perfect use of the arm, so even though my performance isn't _really _affected, I'm not supposed to be sent into a firefight, so I get to stay here in the lap of luxury. Great deal for me, really."

Roy watched the sky a moment longer, then couldn't help but ask, "What's it like? In Ishvarana?"

"Fucking terrifying," Havoc said. "You have no idea when you're gonna be attacked, but you're pretty sure that if you are, you're gonna die, because you won't ever see it coming. Only real way to defend yourself is to kill everyone." Then, reluctantly: "Which – I don't think it's worth it, even for our security."

"Well, that's why we're in here, right? To avoid unnecessary deaths?"

"Technically," Havoc said, then flung his cigarette to the ground and crushed it under his boot. "I'm afraid His Excellency the Sergeant Sherman is going to be wanting me soon. Pissant thinks I need to study up on my geography. Been out here a good year longer than the asshole, and just because he's first-class at kissing ass..." Havoc snorted a laugh. "Sorry. And they say I have issues respecting authority."

Roy smiled in return, then remembered. "Before you go, Havoc – do you know where I could make a phone call?"

"Oh, sure. Comm room." He closed one eye and pointed off to his side. "Go in this door, make a left turn and go for about three hallways, turn right, and it should be on the right. They're not too strict about who goes in, so don't worry about what you're wearing."

"Thanks."

"Sure thing. By the way – if you haven't got the whole pecking order of who you eat with worked out, feel free to sit with us. Be good to have an officer with us, raise our respectability."

"Thanks," Roy said again with a smile.

Havoc gave a little wave and stomped cheerfully back inside. It was a relief, Roy reflected, to have met him, even if he did tend to make Roy feel a bit younger than he was. For all that, he seemed like a genuinely nice guy, and one who gave good directions: one left turn and one right later, Roy stood in front of the communications room, a large room, bristling with wires, with numerous telephone and telegram stations. There were only two people in there at the moment, one a soldier talking on the telephone in low tones, the other a technician who barely spared Roy a glance. Uncertain, Roy picked up the phone, which gave a low hum for a moment as he pressed it to his ear. Then, in his ear, a practiced whine:

"Operator, how can I help you?"

"Can you patch me through to Central?"

A pause, then another voice, still the same tone: "Central City, how can I help you?"

"Yes. Can you put me through to the home of Maes Hughes, please?"

"Please hold."

Then another wait, this one longer, then a ring, another, and then a woman's breathless voice: "Hello?"

Roy smiled in spite of himself. "Gracia?"

"Yes," Gracia responded. "Is it Roy?" she asked tentatively.

"Yeah," he said. It was a relief to hear her voice. "Is Maes there?"

"Sure," she said, then someone fumbled at the phone. There was a thump as, Roy guessed, it landed on the floor, and someone – Maes, probably – said, "Aw, crap." Then the sound of more fumbling and, finally, "Old man!"

"Old man?" Roy repeated. "Swear to god, I've gotten more comments about my age this one day than all the rest of the days of my life."

"That a fact? Which side of the curve do you fall on, anyway?"

"Generally the lower extremities, it seems."

"Hmm. So I'm guessing from this call that you're safely entrenched in the most dangerous region of the world?"

"That I am, with all the luxuries a man could want – a psychotic roommate, a cantankerous mentor, a room for two smaller than the average room for one, and more mercury in the thermometer than I know what to do with."

"Have you eaten?" Maes asked suddenly.

"No."

"'Cause you'll probably be inclined not to eat, because I know how the heat makes you nauseous, but you'll get your appetite back once you drink some water."

"Thanks, Ma. Besides, I think the mess hall's closed, anyway."

"Well, get something to drink before you go to bed, so that you get hungry. Then you'll say, 'Gee, how is my friend Maes so consistently right? Boy, I wish I were half so bright as he is.'"

"I think it's an advantage to be less than half so bright as you, Maes," Roy said, "since your intelligence falls in the negative numbers. How's Gracia?"

Maes snickered and leaned closer in to the phone. "_Hot,_" he whispered lasciviously, then cried, "Ow! I was talking about the _weather, _Grace!"

"We've been having a _cold spell,_ Maes Hughes," came the faint, severe voice.

"His weather! Cripes." Laughing, Maes asked, "You wanna talk to her?"

"That's okay." Conversations between them lasting more than thirty seconds tended to stretch into the awkward. "Any news on whether you're going to be shipped down here?"

"There are rumors of April," he said. "I'd be in Ishvar City, too, so there's a bright point in an otherwise dismal situation, right?"

"Honestly? I'd be glad to have you here," Roy said.

"Bad people, are they?"

"Not all of them," Roy replied, "but Kimbley – that's my roommate – he's more than halfway to psychotic, threatening to castrate me if I call him by his first name, and Marcoh..."

"I'd heard he's a good man."

"He is a good man. He's a very good man. But he's just chock full of paranoid ramblings. He's convinced they're gonna send me out to fight."

"Are they?"

Roy thought to what Havoc had said and frowned. "I'm...not sure."

"I wouldn't worry, Roy," Maes said, even though he himself sounded worried. "You're a valuable asset to the State. They wouldn't throw you away like that."

"Right..." Roy said, then sighed. "So, I'm here, and I need to bathe. I smell worse than usual."

"That's saying something."

"Thanks, Maes. I'll let you get back to your hot date."

"My date sure _is _hot. _Ow!"_

Roy laughed. "Bye."

"Take care."

The line clicked, then hummed out. Roy cleared his throat, then stood. The other two had left while he was talking, and the room was all but dark. It was time, he decided, for that bath. Then sleep.


	4. January 19

**Notes: **Uh, this chapter contains a bit of scatalogical humor. So, uh, yeah. I apologize for, um - worsening the human condition, I guess? It does have a point, at the very least. So, it's just there, and it's just gross, but it's not completely gratuitous.

* * *

**January 19, 1907 **

_8:43 A.M._

"What is it that we're looking for?" Roy asked, having finally worked up the courage.

"I can't tell you," Marcoh said, raising a flask of milky white liquid to the thrumming fluorescent light.

Roy looked up from his clipboard, up from his pen, to frown at the Doctor. "You can't tell me."

"I cannot," he said softly, distractedly, swirling the glass above him.

"Well. This is going to go well," Roy muttered to himself. Then louder: "Why pick me, then, sir? If I don't know what we're researching, then I'm no better than – well, someone literate, I guess, and intelligent enough to make decent observations, but – I'm not of any more use to you than a secretary would be. A lab technician." He didn't add that while staring down vials labeled simply, esoterically, with letter-number combinations was surely fascinating, it certainly wasn't going to help him pass the examination.

"Zee-nine-oh-four-hyphen-six evidencing a minimal precipitate," Marcoh said, setting down the flask once again. Roy took down the note, but resentfully. "It's classified information, Captain," he said. "I'm trying my damnedest to get you clearance. Am I not going fast enough?"

Roy realized, guiltily, that he'd offended Marcoh. "I'm sorry," he said.

Marcoh paused a moment, then turned to Roy with a surprisingly gentle smile. "I have to confess, I'm getting fed up already with the politics of this place," he confided. "I thought I'd be well-rested after my two months' leave in Central, but – already I just want to punch Colonel Gran in the face. Which wouldn't be an advisable course of action."

"Because he's the Iron Blood Alchemist?"

Marcoh grunted agreement. "And a punch to the face would probably do more damage to my fist than his face." He smiled, and Roy laughed. But then the smile faded, and the Doctor's brows drew together.

"You know that nothing I tell you is to be repeated, right?" Marcoh asked.

"Sure," Roy said.

"Even over the phone. Especially over the phone."

"Right." Roy looked at the Doctor, who had seemed particularly brisk that morning – had he, last night, let something slip? "Why?"

"No reason," the Doctor said. Roy wasn't sure if the man was being coy, or if there truly were no reason. It would be dumb to pursue it, so he shrugged and moved onto something that had been bothering him since the previous evening.

"Doctor?" Roy asked. Marcoh moved onto the next flask and grunted to indicate that he was listening. "Just out of curiosity, what's the name of Colonel Gran's apprentice?"

Marcoh paused. "Why?" he asked warily. "You didn't run into him, did you?"

"I, uh – " Roy cleared his throat. "I think he might be my roommate."

The Doctor's hand dropped heavily onto the counter. "That's not possible."

"It's, uh – is it Zolf Jork Kimbley? Is that his name?"

"That's not – yes, it's his name, but – I distinctly requested that you be put with Markee. I _distinctly_..." Marcoh stood there unspeaking for a moment, then deliberately slammed his fist down on the countertop. The glassware clanked. Then a few deliberate breaths and a quiet, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Roy said, covering his alarm with a shrug. "I mean, he threatened to castrate me, and he's challenged my sexual orientation once or twice, but he hasn't hit me, or anything, and he's not going to be a bad influence on me, because he's not going to be an _influence_ on me, so no harm done."

"It's more than that, Captain," Marcoh said, rubbing at the side of his hand gingerly. "Whoever put you with him did it for a reason, and that's what worries me. And they would have to be higher-ranking than me...It must have been Gran. Hakuro wouldn't have done it. It _must _have been Gran." He sank down onto a nearby stool. "Now I _really _want to punch him in the face." Marcoh looked up, his craggy face apologetic. "I should have been able to prevent this. I'm sorry."

"It's nothing," Roy said, even though it was far from nothing. "Besides, even if it weren't me, it'd be someone else. And I'd like to think that I'm less prone to being traumatized than the average person."

"Right," Marcoh said, and lifted the next vial to the light.

_4:54 P.M._

"Wait one moment, Captain," Marcoh said. Roy turned back to the Doctor as he pulled toward himself a large pile of papers. "Do you know any statistics?"

"Some," Roy said.

"Is that some, none, or some, a lot?"

"Some, some."

"Good," Marcoh said, and pulled an enormous, heavy book from behind the pile. "Read this by next week."

_5:57 P.M._

"Well, hey there, Captain," Havoc said, walking up with a tray in his hands and a following of three. "Mind if we sit?"

Roy attempted to choke down his mouthful of coffee in time to respond without seeming rude. Fortunately, Havoc saved him from worrying about any breach in decorum by committing a larger one himself, and sat.

"Let me introduce the troops," Havoc said. "This is Private First Class Richard Riggs – " A hugely tall, almost skeletal man nodded from behind a tray piled high with food. "Private _Last_ Class Heymans Breda – " A portly, bored-looking man bit into a roll, but acknowledged Roy with a flicker of his eyes. "And Private First Class Helmut Mantel."

"I'm a Corporal, you ass," Mantel, who had a small plate of potatoes and four glasses of water, retorted.

"Corporal, Corporal. I'm sorry. I keep forgetting that you're the same rank as me, being that you're so vastly inferior in – well – everything." Havoc grinned at Roy; the joke was clearly meant to put him at his ease, so he laughed. "And this here is Captain Roy Mustang. He's an alchemist."

"You're not a Major?" Breda asked from around a mouthful of food. "I thought that all the alchemists are Majors."

"There's a test that you have to take to become a State Alchemist – " Roy explained uncomfortably.

"Failed it?" Breda asked. The tone was commiserating rather than offensive, so Roy took no offense.

"Oh, no, I didn't even get that far," Roy joked tentatively. It didn't get a great reaction, but – chuckles. That was something. "I was, uh, in school, up until recently – a sort of officer's school for would-be alchemists."

"The Snot Factory!" Riggs laughed.

"We heard of the program," Havoc explained with a grin. "Gave it a bit of a name."

"It fits," Roy assured him. "Kids there were enormous asses. _Enormous. _Huge egos. Huger senses of entitlement."

"Explains a lot of what we've been seeing," Breda said.

"Don't eat this," Havoc said, leaning forward suddenly and picking a stringy vegetable from Roy's plate. "Give you the shits."

Roy set down his mug and plucked it back from him. "How do you know that's not what I'm going for?"

That got a couple of snickers, as fecal humor usually did. Still, Havoc was ready: "'Cause that's not what you get here, Captain, sir. This is a town where you have to wipe your nose, not blow it. You get anything, you get the runs."

Roy was half a breath away from reminding him that he smoked – then remembered Havoc's request the previous night that he keep it to himself, and sat back and closed his mouth. Havoc watched him a moment, then sat back himself and smiled a contented, casual smile. "Says the guy who smokes, of course," Havoc laughed. "Nothing'll loosen up the bowels like a cigarette."

"Except coffee," Roy said, raising his mug.

"Except coffee," Havoc agreed.

"And salad."

Breda laughed. "Closest you'll get to a salad out here's a handful of leaves."

"If you can even find that," Mantel said. "Actually be pretty impressed if you could."

"What, haven't you been down by the river?" Riggs asked.

"Of course _you _would know where to find 'em," Mantel groaned.

"No, really. Assload of trees growing there."

"Riggs is very passionate about nature," Breda explained with a broad eye-roll.

"We're going down there tomorrow," Riggs declared. "You're gonna get rid of all your stereotypes about what can grow in the desert, and – "

"I'm sorry," Mantel said. "I'm really, really sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."

"No. You're not getting out of it now."

"I'm allergic to nature, Rickie."

"I'll bring the tissues," Riggs replied. "That all right, Havoc?"

"Sure," Havoc said. He looked at Roy. "You got tomorrow off, right, Captain? Wanna come with?"

Roy shook his head. "Marcoh gave me a textbook to read. Enormous. You could brain a moose with it."

"A moose?" Riggs repeated skeptically.

"Not a moose. They don't have moose here. A goat, perhaps?"

"That is a _hilarious _image," Havoc said, then made a sort of "Baaaaaa-argh" sound.

"Splat," Breda offered in supplement.

"Terrible," Riggs declared, but even he was amused. "The goat is a noble creature, you know. Unmatched in its jumping ability."

"Ah," Roy said. "So then, it's 'Sproing sproing sproing baaaa-argh splat'?" It was rather intoxicating, he reflected a moment later, to have made everyone at the table laugh. Even if goat-punching wasn't precisely the highest form of humor.

"No, seriously, Captain," Havoc said once he'd recovered, "you gotta come with tomorrow. It'll be awesome. Not gonna find better company than this."

Roy grinned. "Or at least not better company that'll let me in theirs."

"This is a funny one," Mantel said. "Witty."

Roy fluttered his eyelashes in response – but then Kimbley walked by, tray in hand, and Roy hunched down a little to avoid being seen by him. That caught Havoc's attention, and he turned around in his seat to look at Kimbley, who was going over to sit at an empty table.

"Holy crap," Havoc said, turning back to the group. "Who is that guy? Gotta have some pretty serious balls to walk around with his uniform looking like _that _when Colonel Gran's on the prowl."

"That's Gran's protégé," Roy said. A few of the others responded with quiet "Ahhh"s. "He's also my roommate," he admitted.

"I'm glad you guys have to put up with roommates, too," Breda said. "That makes me feel better."

"You wanna invite him over?" Havoc asked.

Roy considered him. He was sitting alone, and – no. He'd probably say something crazy and scare off anyone normal. Besides, wasn't like Kimbley'd done anything nice for him, right? "God, no," Roy said, feeling somehow vaguely dirty as he said it. "Man's a fucking psychopath."


	5. January 20

**Notes: **This chapter is a bit shorter, but there'll be a lot of chapters that are gonna be way shorter. Some will be a few sentences, even. I'm trying to keep with the whole, I don't know, captain's log thing? Ha. That's funny! 'Cause Roy's a captain in this story and, um...Hi! I'm Hope Wilson, and I hope you're all enjoying the story, and help yourself to a brochure.

* * *

**January 20, 1907**

_11:33 P.M._

"It's nature!" Riggs proclaimed, his arms spread wide.

"Great," Mantel said and flopped down in the shade of a tree. "Can we get lunch now?"

"I dunno," Roy said. "It's kind of nice." The city lay behind them, and at the distance, it had the appeal of a ruin – appeal lost upon closer scrutiny. And the river had that miraculous quality that all water had, of somehow summoning up a breeze, of lowering the air around it even just by the margin of a few degrees that transformed it from unbearable to bearable. And all along the riverbanks were bushes, low trees – green things, flowering things, that blocked out the sun. And when Roy bent down to scoop up a handful of the loose black soil, just below the surface, it was cool. He straightened and let the soil filter through his hands. "I kind of like it."

"Thank you," Riggs said, leaning affectionately against a tree. His head, hilariously, rose above several of the lower branches. "See? The Captain knows the real value of things."

Roy smiled in spite of himself. Then he noticed that Riggs was looking just behind him, mouth open, and he started to turn around. Then he was pushed into the water.

He was afraid, at first – he wasn't sure what to do in the water, and he tripped when he was pushed and went in head-first, and there was the fluttering fear that Havoc and the others had brought him out here just so they could do that – that the whole thing had been a cruel joke. But after that first moment of fear, he noticed that the water was sluggish, and warm, and quite shallow, reaching only perhaps to his armpits; he touched bottom and surfaced a moment later, theatrically sputtering and outraged as they laughed – not cruelly.

"Sweet god in heaven!" he shouted to the others, slogging his way to shore. "The hell was that for?"

"Sorry, Captain," Havoc said, chewing on an unlit cigarette. "I couldn't resist. Probably the only time I'm ever gonna be able to do that to someone who outranks me."

"You're out of the army!" Roy declared. "Out. Dishonorable discharge for the lot of you. This was my good uniform!"

"They're all the same," Mantel shot back. "Hence 'uniform.'"

Roy groaned at that, and collapsed on the silty riverbank. Then he reached into his pocket. "You couldn't have waited until I took my money out?" Roy asked, pulling out the sodden mass. "I think it's ruined now."

"Well, now we won't make you pay for lunch, is all," Breda said.

"We weren't actually going to make you pay for lunch," Havoc interjected.

"That's a relief," Roy said, "since I only brought enough for myself, so if you'd tried..."

"Dishwash!" Riggs and Mantel shouted together, looked at each other, and burst out laughing.

"Inside joke," Havoc explained.

"I got that," Roy said, slightly envious, and covered by dumping water out of his boot. He hesitated, not wanting to be a jerk about it, since there was no harm done, the money wasn't actually ruined, and he actually felt quite good for having been dunked, but – "I can't really swim, you know."

Havoc furrowed his brow. "Sure you can. Managed in the river well enough, didn't you?"

"That's 'cause it was this deep," Roy said, holding his fingers a centimeter apart.

"How the hell did you manage to make it into adulthood without knowing how to swim?" Riggs marveled. Then he smiled. "No, this is great. We'll teach you."

"Uh..." Roy coughed slightly. "Really?"

Even laconic Breda grinned at the idea. "Really. 'Oh, where did you learn how to swim, Captain?' 'Why, Ishvar, the Land of No Water, of course.' The irony'll be _intense."_

"I don't think people generally ask where someone learns to swim," Roy pointed out.

"So you tell them," Havoc said. "Come on. It'll be fun."

"Uh, okay. Sure. I always did kind of want to learn."

"Not now," Mantel groaned; having remembered his earlier irritation, he'd flopped back into his prone position and resumed grumbling. "Teach him later. When I'm not around."

"You know you want to help," Riggs said.

"I know I want _food,_" Mantel retorted.

"Food, then," Havoc said, shaking his head mournfully. Then, to Roy: "We always go to the same restaurant. Hope you don't mind routine."

_1:22 P.M._

Said restaurant was tiny, a small door in the midst of a string of small doors on a dusty back street in the western city. It didn't even have a name painted on the canopy, just the word "restaurant" – misspelled. There were only four tables in the cramped interior, but each of the tables was large, as though this were a place to each with company, with friends. He liked that.

There was only a single waitress, who didn't give them menus. The restaurant didn't seem to have menus, but the others seemed to know what to order. Roy hesitated when she came around to him, partially because of the cacophony of the other four each advocating their particular favorites at the top of their lungs, and partially because of the striking character of the waitress's red eyes lingering on his.

As she walked away, Roy realized that she was the first Ishvaran he'd seen. It wasn't a bad beginning.

"See why we like this place?" Havoc asked, nudging Roy in the ribs.

_3:53 P.M._

"They'll die, too, you know," Kimbley said as soon as Roy had closed the door behind him. Again dressed in nothing but a bare sleeveless shirt and his uniform pants, his stringy hair trailing down his back, his wide mouth stretched in the smallest grin, he sat like an ascetic, like an ancient Buddha searching for enlightenment in the book before him, in the reaction of the man before him.

"Excuse me?" Roy asked.

"They'll die too. The men you're surrounding yourself with," Kimbley said, matter-of-fact. "They're cannon fodder. They're mayflies, living quick, living brief, not knowing that their day's lifespan is nothing 'cause they're only living for the flesh, for the instinct; they can't transcend their instinct. They're base, and they'll die."

"What, and we won't?" Roy asked, sitting in his chair and running fingers through his hair, tangled in the muddy waters of the Messha.

"The tall one'll catch a bullet with his head," Kimbley said, his quiet voice almost a chant, "the blonde one'll take a knife to the ribs. They're steeped in mortality, Mustang. They reek of it. Do you honestly want to get involved something so transient?"

Roy shook his head. "They're not even going near the front lines." Havoc had explained that: each one of them had something wrong with him, so that they weren't to be sent to the front lines. That was why they were here. Second-rate, Havoc said, so they were given second-rate jobs which, thankfully kept them from danger.

"Not all death is in Ishvarana," Kimbley replied. "Not all danger is in Akarana." There was something in his manner that – didn't bode well.

"Are you _threatening _them, Kimbley?" Roy asked.

But there was something strange, almost sad, not threatening, as he said, "Don't get attached," and ducked back into his book.

Roy pulled off his boot and rubbed at his foot. It had gotten a little raw toward the heel, but there were no blisters. The heat of the desert had dried his clothing far to quickly to allow his sock to raise a blister.


	6. January 22

**January 22, 1907**

_7:58 A.M._

Marcoh wasn't in his office when Roy arrived, and he wasn't inside the lab. Instead, on the workbench, Roy found a note addressed to him, which was written, strangely, in shorthand but in impeccable handwriting:

_Mtng. Rept to armry. Be back by 10._

Then – and this made Roy smile, a little – signed "Tim."

Roy had managed to get a fairly good idea where everything was over the past few days, partially from wandering on the not-so-rare occasions when he got lost-ish on the way to and from one place to the next, and partially from Havoc and the others who, having been stationed as guards in the base for quite some time, knew their ways around. They even knew the alchemists' barracks quite well, since they'd lived there before being displaced in order to make room for the higher-ranked newcomers.

He was pretty sure that the armory was close to the practice courtyard where he'd met Havoc, that first day, because he'd walked past it a few times since and there was a large door nearby that was always guarded or barred. So Roy went, and found, rather to his delight, that today's guard on the door was none other than Breda.

"Please don't tell me that you actually have _more _free time now," was the first thing that Breda said when he saw Roy.

"Morning," Roy replied. "And no, I've just been sent over here for..." What? "Something. I think. This _is_ the armory, right?"

"Yep," Breda responded. "I hope you have the password."

"Password?" Roy asked, uncertain whether to laugh or not. Breda's face was completely serious, but then again, it generally was – man had a fantastic deadpan. So Roy took a stab: "'Roy Mustang is a doofus?'"

Breda tipped his head to the side, thought, and nodded. "That'll do. What do you need?"

"God only knows," Roy said. "Marcoh just left me a note, telling me to – "

"Captain Mustang!" came a voice from behind Roy. He turned as Breda snapped to attention, saw the insignia of a major, saluted. It took a moment to realize that he knew the Major, took another to realize that this was the petty man who'd stopped him that first day.

"Sir," Roy greeted with as much deference as he could muster.

The Major looked him up and down, then contemptuously returned the salute. "Captain. I'm Major Donovan. Come with me," he said, and nodded to Breda, who stepped aside. Donovan went through the door. Roy followed.

Even just seeing the inside of the room was enough to make a grown man cynical. There were enough weapons to prosecute a hundred hundred wars, it seemed. Lining shelves reaching through to the back of the uncannily deep room, stacked on the high walls, they ranged a spectrum from mundane to extravagant, from knives and handguns to automatic weapons to a series of grenade launchers.

"Colonel Gran requested that I issue you a firearm personally," the Major said almost absently. A change had come over him when he'd stepped inside the room. He spoke now with that peculiar combination of distance and deep satisfaction that Roy had seen any number of times among his classmates as they stepped into a library. A gun, he realized, was, to this man, as a book to him: more serious than a toy, yes, rich like a toy wasn't, but every bit as fun. The thought, combined with the bitter-metallic tang in the air, made Roy a little nauseous.

"He also requested that I make sure you know how to use it," Donovan was saying, casting over the shelves. With a little delighted cry, he dove down and surfaced again with a gun, then turned to Mustang and held it out for his inspection. It was small, black, and menacing. "Nine millimeters," he said, "quite powerful, quite accurate. Seven rounds. It's an officer's weapon," he said, "with quite a noble lineage. Do you?"

Roy, reflecting on how everything was a somebody's something to this man, was caught off-guard. "Do I – ?"

"Know how to use it," Donovan said, a bit of his previous severity returning to him.

"Not so much," Roy admitted.

The Major nodded once, sharply, and held the thing out butt-first. Roy looked at it, looked at the Major, then started to reach for it, gingerly. Donovan grabbed his wrist and forcibly fixed his hand around the gun.

"It's not going to bite you, Captain," he said shortly.

"I know it's not gonna bite _me,_" Roy responded angrily, "I'm worried about shooting you by accident, _sir._"

Roy was rather proud of the severity of his response, until Donovan said, "Are you stupid? We don't keep them _loaded._"

Oh. "_Oh," _Roy replied, but at least it was the most pissed-off sounding "Oh" in human existence. That was some small consolation.

"Come with me, Captain," Donovan said once again, and started to go out. "I'll teach you how to shoot it."

"I have to be back with Marcoh by ten, sir," Roy called after him.

"Don't worry about Marcoh, Captain," the Major said. "These are Colonel Gran's orders."

_11:29 A.M._

"What made you think the military was a good idea?" Donovan asked, surveying the targets hung at the opposite end of the courtyard. Someone next to Roy laughed, then stifled his laughter as Roy turned to glare at him.

"Be back here tomorrow," Donovan said. "You can go now."

_12:13 P.M._

"What took you so long?" Marcoh asked.

"I had to wash the stench off," Roy said. "I'm sorry."

"For two hours?" Marcoh asked. Roy noticed, guiltily, that Marcoh was still on the Z-vials, even though he'd planned to have moved onto the Rs before ten o'clock. He told himself that he didn't need to feel guilty, that it wasn't his fault – but the sight of Marcoh awkwardly juggling flask and clipboard was enough to make him feel guilty.

So even before he responded, he went to take the notes back from the Doctor. "Major Donovan kept me an extra hour and a half," Roy said. "I thought he'd told you."

Marcoh still looked annoyed, but at least his annoyance seemed to be redirected. "No," he said, "he didn't see _fit._"

"Yeah. He's ordered me to go in tomorrow so he can teach me how to kill people even better

"He has?" Marcoh asked, the anger rising in his voice. "He doesn't seem to realize that you work for _me – "_

"It isn't him," Roy said. "It's Gran."

Marcoh's eyes narrowed, and his mouth pressed into a line; but, quietly, said, "_Colonel _Gran, Captain. He doesn't abide disrespect." The Doctor then sighed through his nose. "Be here by noon, then, and I'll expect you to stay a little later, if that's all right; I'll use the morning to conduct the research you're _not _supposed to be privy to." He frowned. "I don't know that I'll be able to get you clearance at all."

"That's all right, Doctor," Roy said, even though it was nine different kinds of _not _right. Lab technique was valuable, he told himself. Lab technique was something worth learning;it wasn'ta waste of time.

"If you come later than noon," Marcoh said quietly, after a moment, "that's all right. I'll understand if you want to get the stink off."

"Thank you," Roy replied.

The Doctor straightened with a weary smile. "Well. I haven't eaten yet. Have you?"

"I haven't," Roy admitted, and realized with a start that he was hungry.

"I know you normally take lunch in the mess hall, but...If you'd like, I can make up another sandwich, and we can..." Marcoh paused. "I haven't had the time to be much of a mentor to you. If you'll stay, we can...talk, I suppose."

It was an appealing offer. Roy smiled, nodded.

_8:03 P.M._

There was only a single technician in the communications room when Roy walked in. He looked young and small and out of place in a uniform that was too big for him.

"Excuse me," the dark-haired technician said with an apologetic bob of his head, as though it weren't his room.

Roy didn't know how to respond, so he just sat and placed his call.

_10:37 P.M._

"I'm going to sleep," Kimbley announced long after the lights had been turned out.

Roy looked up at his form, dimly lit by the candle at Roy's elbow. "Congratulations."

Kimbley stirred and sat up in bed. "Let me tell you a story, Captain Roy. It's a story of a man, suffering against a horrible affliction. Alas! Terrible it is, his malady; it disturbed his sleep. For this lone man, certainly unlike the rest of the human race, was unable to sleep when the entire goddamn room is lit up like a fucking dance-hall – "

"I have to read this by tomorrow, Kimbley," Roy interrupted. He wouldn't be so adamant if he weren't so close to the end – there were perhaps eighty pages to completion.

"And I have to fucking _sleep _by tomorrow, Mustang, wanna stop punishing me for your failings?"

"Wanna get off my back? If I don't read this..."

"What, will Lieutenant Colonel Ohh-Didja-Wet-Your-Pants be vewwy vewwy disappointed in you?"

"Don't talk about Marcoh like that," Roy said, surprising himself with his own sharpness.

"Then put out the fucking light, you stupid bastard."

"I have to read."

"Go outside."

"It's dark outside, and we're not supposed to _go_ outside."

"Not my problem."

"Put a fucking pillow over your fucking head, Kimbley! Maybe we'll get lucky and you'll _die!"_

"Not nice, Mustang. Not friendly. Not someone I want to know." Kimbley's wolf-eyes gleamed in the half-light. "What have we been learning since we got here?"

"Good note-taking skills and how to appease petty assholes?"

"What, is your internship not going so smoothly?"

Partially because he didn't want to answer that, and partially because Kimbley had a point, Roy pulled out a piece of paper and, with a bit of thought, sketched an array. It had been a while, and his circle was a little lopsided, and it was not, perhaps, as elegant as he was used to, but he placed the candle on top of it and concentrated, and the flame grew smaller, dimmer, bluer. The light was focused at the bottom of the flame, and Roy could only see his roommate as a vague outline.

"Fucking happy?" Roy asked.

"What did you do?" Kimbley asked with all the airs of a teacher.

"I changed the concentration of gases around the flame, reducing the oxygen level so that it wouldn't burn as efficiently." Then, irritably: "Do I get a gold star, or...?"

"It was a decent thought," Kimbley said, then lay back in bed. When he spoke, Roy could hear the smile in his voice. "If I were you and you were me, I would have used the array to set you on fire. It's a weak man who'll abide insults."


End file.
